


Närmófinion

by ziggy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:31:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziggy/pseuds/ziggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor cocked his head slightly in surprise- he had never seen Glorfindel angry. He decided he quite liked it. Erestor paused. 'You don't have a Dwarf in here do you' He peered under the bed. 'Or young Thranduillion'.<br/>As the One Ring slowly insinuates itself into the mind of those who dwell in Imladris, Erestor finds himself dwelling on the Past, where long ago he rode with the Sons of Feänor.<br/>Also Glorfindel, Legolas. Elladan. Elrohir. Maedhros, Fingon, Maglor</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Närmófinion

Disclaimer: no money etc

For Spiced Wine. Happy Birthday.

This is an outtake from More Dangerous, Less Wise but is a collection of outtakes rather than work intended to be a story. However it will tangle around MDLW and link up with Imrahil eventually. 

First chapter is set on the evening before Legolas leaves Imladris with Glorfindel to hunt for the Nazgul.

Notes:

Warning: If the F word offends you, best not to read. Used twice.

Ash Nazg: The One Ring

Maedhros: The Son of Fëanor – for anyone who has not read the Silmarillion. Erestor has lived a very very long time.

 

Chapter 1: Närmófinion

Erestor rested his hands on the railing of one of the iron-wrought balconies that overlooked the western approach of the Valley. A breeze that smelled of snow and pine trees lifted his hair and in his heart a light green-gold melody danced, not touching but drifting delightfully. The cold pebbled his nipples delightfully and he felt calm, peaceful, understood. He could take out each memory, one by one as if they were jewels, and hold them up to the light, explore each facet. How he had loved the magnificence of them, of Maedhros most of all. Maedhros the Tall. Maedhros the Fair...

It is not too late...

It was too late. They had been vanquished, sucked into the Void and devoured by the emptiness, the Dark. They could not live still in that emptiness...

Can they not? The Elvish soul is bound to Arda...

A whisper...White fire. Distant. Like stars exploding in the immenseness of the Void... Burnished bronze hair, long, streaming out in the wind...*

He saw them then, as once they had been. How they had blazed! Like suns. No, brighter. Brighter than Eärendil for his borrowed Silmaril was but a shadow of Fëanor's flaming soul. How could such fire be quenched?

Perhaps it is not...

He stared at the drifting leaves, falling golden and russet to the still green lawns. But he did not see them. Instead he remembered a darkness open in the ground, a crack in the earth, a chasm...for a moment he saw a comet fall, blaze, a stream of bright red fire ... But he knew there had been a choice, and he had turned away at the last.

How have the Valar allowed this?

He pushed himself away from the balcony, shaking himself out of memory and nostalgia. There was a pressure in his head that had been there for days, he realised, and that he thought had eased with the rough pounding he had given and taken...but it was back already.

He smoothed his hands over his hair and rubbed his temples; there was a high-pitched whine in his ears against the background beat of blood. He frowned slightly and strode down the passage and opened the door to his own room so it slammed against the wall and banged shut. He poured himself a glass of cold, clear water with a steady hand, and drank it all, felt it ice-cold in his chest, his belly, let it ground him.

...these thoughts, these strange thoughts...were alien, he did not think like this. And however much those memories played over and over, he remembered too the atmosphere of unreal hysteria that surrounded so much of that time; the Oath, the blood, the blind relentless hate that flared in their blood...Always a strange undercurrent of Power had surged about the Sons of Feänor and now, an echo of a lesser and diminished Power eddied about him now, an insidious whisper, the tinny imitation...

Ash Nazg.

Glancing up, he caught the image of his hard, lean body in a mirror that hung over the fireplace, reflecting the light. His own long severe face emerging from the dark of his room; he thought it hard, and strange perhaps with his amber eyes and distinct brows. Cheekbones sharp, like knives, he had been told. He frowned disapprovingly at himself and stared. His face seemed to float in the glass, against darkness, and the flickering candle flames seemed disembodied.

It is not too late...They are still there, in the Void...

He smiled at himself and watched as one fine black brow lifted in sardonic appreciation of himself. He raised his glass to himself and did nothing. Let the insidious voice of Ash Nazg whisper on. If it thought he was listening, it might not pester anyone else.

Almost idly, he wondered if he was the only one to whom it spoke. And knew it would not be.

He smiled at himself in the glass, noticed how the scar was almost invisible, that scar that served always to remind him of his fealty and now it throbbed as if Maedhros himself knew what was offered. He lifted his glass in silent salute to those who had gone and burned like stars, like suns in the Void. Erestor left.

A quiet laugh somewhere in the garden and he saw two figures emerge from the armoury, so vital, so full of power. They were their own. Except they were not. One was owned by revenge and the other owned by his brother. He stepped back so he could watch the Sons of Elrond as they passed below. Sons of Thunder. And how Elrohir was like his distant cousins. All gone...their fabulous magnificence gobbled up by the hungry Dark. And he wondered if It knew that Elrohir had that same hard brilliance, and if it hungered for him too...

And they passed beneath his balcony and into the House.

...He would be yours...

Elrohir? he thought, surprised.

Silence. Not Elrohir.

Do not dare, he threw back at Ash Nazg. It had crept beneath the secret of his heart.

Draining his glass, tight-lipped and angry, he left his room, strode down the corridor.

A thin sliver of light showed beneath Glorfindel's door as he expected and he banged once on the door. He did not wait but threw open the door to find Glorfindel, as he had surmised, sitting at the table in his room, strewn with papers and report and rosters and looking irritated and unusually grumpy. Erestor almost stopped for he had never ever seen Glorfindel anything but patient and kindly.

Glorfindel threw Erestor a startled and irritated glance. 'Erestor! What do you mean barging in here like this?' Glorfindel snapped and Erestor was surprised. Erestor himself was known for being short with folk but Glorfindel was elevated to almost god-like status by the inhabitants of Imladris. He frowned but Glorfindel continued with barely a pause. 'And what in Manwë's name were you thinking earlier, talking about how Maedhros was betrayed by the Noldor, by Cirdan? What did you hope to achieve by that?'

Erestor frowned at the sudden turn. Had he said that? He could not recall but Glorfindel looked almost incandescent...

'I did not say that,' he objected. What had he said? He shook himself... A little blush of heat on his back crept between his shoulder blades.

'Maybe I did say that,' he admitted, throwing himself into the chair opposite Glorfindel. He may have been goading Gildor even further at the time. But he would never admit he was wrong. Instead he looked contemplatively at his fingernails and focused on the reason for his visit. 'I have come to warn you to put a guard on the Hobbits. For their safety.'

'Erestor, I have already done that. I am pleased it is so discrete that you did not notice. Now, if you have come to irritate me you are doing well,' Glorfindel clenched his pen so hard it almost broke. 'Now thank you for telling me and now clear off and plan your next banquet or whatever it is you do.' Erestor saw that he had gritted his teeth and his lovely blue eyes normally so full of joy and fearless, were seething with fury.

Erestor cocked his head slightly in surprise- he had never seen Glorfindel angry. He decided he quite liked it. There was a slight flush on his high cheekbones and his full lips were pressed together but the fire in his eyes was barely suppressed, furious it was true but it hinted at the passionate soul beneath that sophisticated and beautiful veneer.

'And I don't like the way you just barge in as if you never have to knock like everyone else,' Glorfindel added. He shuffled some papers pointedly and banged them on the table.

'Why are you bothered?' asked Erestor provocatively, almost unable to help himself. He narrowed his sharp amber eyes and cast his gaze quickly about the room. 'It's not like you would ever have anyone in here,' he said deliberately scornful, 'and you have nothing I haven't seen before. Plenty of times,' he added with a staged leer.

Normally Glorfindel would have laughed at that but this time he threw a quick, nervous look at Erestor and then quickly looked away. Erestor paused. 'You don't have a Dwarf in here do you?' He peered under the bed melodramatically. 'Or young Thranduilion?'

Glorfindel drew his breath in sharply and glared at Erestor. His blue eyes were very blue, ice-blue, cold fire, thought Erestor more than a little speculatively. He let a smile touch his lips and imperceptibly tilted his head so his long hair sifted over his shoulders.

'It is Ash Nazg that makes you fiery,' he said, knowing it would annoy Glorfindel even further. Knowing...he thought to himself in surprise, why on Arda was he set on provoking Glorfindel?

Glorfindel lifted his head to stare. 'You dare say that?' he demanded rising to his feet.

Erestor rolled his eyes. 'Very well, do you prefer I say Isildur's Bane? Although it is less his bane, than ours, may he rot in some nasty corner of the Hells with a Bal...' He stopped. 'With a bag of stoats in his breeches,' he said slowly seeing the blue fire flare in Glorfindel's eyes, and even he had to consider before awakening that wrath. 'It should be Celebrimbor's Bane, or Gil-Galad's. Why do we name it after that greedy stupid Man...' He shook himself, wondering why he felt the slow fire kindle in his breast and flare suddenly. Surely he was in control? Surely Ash Nazg was a lesser Power and he was so aware of it? It could not have hold of him?

But when Glorfindel took a step towards him, Erestor too rose to his feet, looked him in the eye and it burned like ice. But Erestor was no child and did not step down. He never did. Fëanorian, he told himself, like a battle cry, his blood firing and thundering through his veins.

'Not only do I prefer,' said Glorfindel cold to Erestor's fire, coming closer and Erestor lifted his sardonic black eyebrow and let his thin lips curl into a smile that was almost predatory. 'I insist.'

Erestor felt his own fists clench, and his hard coils of sinew and iron muscle bunched. He felt his amber eyes narrow and lifted his chin in expectation. He was no servant or soft councilor; in deed, he was a match for Glorfindel should it come to blows, verbal or physical...He almost flinched at the alien thought; this was not at all what he intended. He had intended to show Glorfindel how Ash Nazg had seized him...

Glorfindel stood close, almost trembling and his blue eyes were ice. Suddenly he grabbed Erestor by his thin shirt and pulled him close. Close enough that he felt the bang of blood in his veins, felt the throb of arousal against his own thigh.

'Are we going to fuck?' Erestor grinned in ferocious delight.

Glorfindel stopped, breathing hard. He seemed to tremble and then suddenly pushed Erestor hard, so he stumbled and fell back into the chair. With outrageous cheek that only he could do, Erestor puckered his lips and made a loud smacking kissing noise that infuriated Glorfindel further.

Glorfindel stood over him, fists clenched, breathing hard. 'By Elbereth, you are the most irritating man I have ever met in all my life.'

'Just this life?' Erestor grinned irrepressibly, although his heart was beating wildly, and he had been poised to fight back. 'Or both? You knew Turgon and by Eru, he was irritating. So I am flattered.'

At the mention of Turgon, Glorfindel looked like he had been struck. He took a step back and his face, always so full of fearless joy, was suddenly vulnerable and there was such pain in his eyes. 'How dare you speak of him in such a way, Erestor. Whatever your proclivities, they are not mine.'

Glorfindel sank into his chair and looked away out of the window where the moon had risen over the mountains and turned the snow silver.

A sudden high pitched whine sounded in Erestor's ears, and he found himself saying, 'You deny yourself great pleasure, my friend. Perhaps you could imagine that I am Turgon...'

'Erestor! Do not say it!' Glorfindel's blue eyes blazed and even Erestor paused...and then ploughed on fearlessly. There was a crackle of Power. Blue-fire-ice.

'Imagine I am ...'

'If you dare...'

'Did he not have my hair?' Erestor pulled his own long, thick hair over one shoulder, circling the heavy horsetail and pulling it through the circle of his forefinger and thumb. 'His eyes were blue as I recall, but I could keep my eyes shut.'

Glorfindel was staring at him, lips parted and eyes wide, furious. His fists were clenched on the arms of his chair and there was an angry flush to his cheeks.

Erestor smiled. 'You have never looked lovelier. I have never wanted to fuck you until now. Come.' He let his long hair slide through his fingers, spread it so it fell in a gleaming sheet. 'Think how we will look together.'

'And if I did,' Glorfindel was suddenly defiant. 'What would Elrond think if we turned up in his council tomorrow holding hands?' He narrowed his blue eyes then and shot a final barb. 'What would Elladan think?'

It was like cold water and Erestor paused for a second but nothing touched his smooth face. His head cleared suddenly and he breathed in through his nose sharply. How had he let it go this far?

Slowly, and with a gentler smile than before he replied, 'They would think you a sly dog and envy you.' But it was the light teasing of their normal conversation and not the heavy barbed warfare of earlier. Erestor leaned forwards then. 'This is Ash...' he paused, not wishing to rile Glorfindel further, not now when Erestor was seeing clearly. 'It is the Ring. It is making us behave like this. Both of us.'

Glorfindel stared at him, almost shaking...and the blue-fire-ice flared and suddenly dimmed, like a flame that does not catch.

'You come too close.' Glorfindel's face was still closed, burying the hurt so deep. It made him vulnerable, Erestor thought and still he was not completely clear of Ash Nazg's malevolence.

'What were you thinking about when I came in?' he watched Glorfindel's lovely face closely. The full lips stayed closed but he blinked slowly, a sure sign, Erestor knew that he had caught the scent. He always did.

'You said I was irritating,' he reminded Glorfindel. 'I said I was flattered as you had known Turgon.' He paused, letting Glorfindel follow his thought. 'Why did you straight think of my proclivities? I did not mention anything that could have been so construed.'

'You are doing it again,' Glorfindel said angrily and Erestor sighed. Sometimes, for a twice-born lord of the Noldor, Glorfindel could be remarkably obtuse.

'What were you thinking about when I came in?' he prompted gently.

'I was putting together the patrol for tomorrow...' Glorfindel began defensively. Then he stopped, frowning. 'No...I had become distracted,' he said wonderingly. 'I was thinking of Turgon...remembering the bells of Gondolin. I was remembering Idril... She was lovely,' he said softly and Erestor watched sadly. He had always known.

'That Tuor,' said Erestor, sending Glorfindel a sly sideways glance. 'He was a cunning bastard.' And suddenly he saw a flicker of deep loss on Glorfindel's face and something else...something he recognised...A darker hope fed by Ash Nazg.

His own hope he had dispelled and now he must do the same for Glorfindel. Erestor sighed and it surprised him for it came from somewhere deep, deep inside, buried as deep as Glorfindel's thin spear of misery.

'You are troubled,' he observed very gently. 'As was I. And I thought I was in control of my thoughts. I was not.' And then he asked again. 'What were you thinking when I came in? My question is not idle, I promise you, my friend,' he said quickly, holding his hand out towards Glorfindel appeasingly. 'Think what we have seen this day, what we have discussed. I was too much in memory and found myself thinking...of things I thought impossible.'

Glorfindel stared at him for a moment and then shook his head, looked down. 'Too much in memory,' he agreed.

Erestor waited, and allowed himself a moment of regret that the long, golden hair would stay pristine and the ice-blue eyes would not kindle in passion as they had a moment ago in fury. It was a waste, he thought and smiled slightly. Not for him, but someone should enjoy such glorious magnificence. Someone alive, he thought a little sadly, a little bitterly. It would have to be a woman of courage and beauty for Glorfindel, he thought. Like Idril.

'How much we have lost,' he murmured. 'Such magnificence. I remember the sunlight on the spires of Gondolin. The white stone of Nargothrond, and Himring's bleak elegance.' He reached out and lightly, so gently, touched Glorfindel's cheek, he was warm. 'Were not Fingon and Maedhros glorious?' Erestor turned his head and looked out of the window to the mountains that were nothing like those of his youth. 'And how we are diminished by their loss.'

He gazed for a moment, West and felt the fury in his heart that he thought had long ago settled and slept. It surprised him to feel it still there. 'They cannot come back,' he said softly. 'Whatever the Ring is whispering to you, my friend. They cannot come back. Your loved ones are over the Sea. Somewhere. We hope.' And he saw the moment that Glorfindel's empty hope died. He did not say that he knew his beloved lords were not there; one cast himself into the gouged hole in the earth, blazing like a comet and the other, lost so far and for so long that Erestor doubted he still knew his own name... but sometimes in dreams he thought he heard a song drift on the wind...It was why he himself could not leave.

Ah. He shook himself. Too deep in memory indeed! And still he was afflicted. But it was his own loss and regret and not Sauron's tawdry trinket.

Glorfindel had covered his eyes with his hands. Then, so quietly that Erestor could barely hear him, he said, 'I was thinking how wrong it was, how fair was Gondolin. I was thinking how it should be built again and I be its King.' It was said with such honesty it took Erestor's breath away, and Glorfindel's beautiful face so open and full of joy normally, was closed in grief. 'This time I thought, it would not fall...This time, I would be there in time. I would know...' He passed his hand over his eyes and breathed out softly through his nose, an exhalation of longing so poignant, such yearning for what was passed.

Erestor knew that longing, that grief. There was not a day passed when he did not miss the fire-bright burning of the Noldor in their pomp. Diminished indeed.

'We must learn which is Its voice and which is our own,' Glorfindel looked up, suddenly meeting Erestor's amber eyes. 'And we must guard each other's hearts, Närmófinion, for I find I do not know which is my voice, and which is not my own.'

Närmófinion. It jolted Erestor to hear it, and he wondered if Glorfindel knew how it still pierced him to hear that name though the one who gave it to him no longer drew breath, no longer looked fire upon him...and how he longed to hear it spoken... But he merely let his amber eyes focus on the snow on the mountain peaks, where the sunrise gilded it and made them gold.

Närmófinion- Cunning Flame. Quenya.

Chapter end notes:

* Reference to Spiced wine's lovely description of Feanor and his sons in the Void in Dark Star.


	2. The Quality of Stillness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another outtake. Erestor takes a moment of stillness to remember but finds respite from the loneliness elsewhere.  
> Slash warning but not explicit.

For Melethen. Happy Birthday - so sorry it's so late Melethen.

Just a little snippet. I wish it was more but I am very very swamped at work, my dear and can't write at the moment -struggling to find my way through RL. Sorry it's late as well. It's a bit unpolished and rough and ready unbeta'd.

The Quality of Stillness

Erestor strode purposefully along the path that wound through leafy groves and gardens, ignoring the brush of long grass against his legs, the whisper of leaves. Elves murmured respectful greetings, or bowed or stood aside as he passed, and Erestor barely acknowledged their deference.

He felt the restlessness in his bones, and his muscles flexed as he walked. Walked! He who had fought long battles against trolls and Balrogs and stood at the side of the Sons of Fëanor. Truth be told, he was a little bored. He was getting flabby, he thought and flapped his arms once. No muscle tone, he glanced down at himself. He slapped his flat belly in disgust, flexed his tight muscles and thought of his room, where a sword rested on its own stand, and Fëanorian armour that gleamed as brightly now as when it was forged. It would surely no longer fit me, he thought and resisted the temptation to tear through the halls of Imladris, throw open the doors of his own private rooms and find out.

He had refused to hammer out the dents in it from the last time. Each dent, each crease reminded him of another life lost, of another defeat. And to have done so once would have hammered out the memories of those he loved most.

His mind was turned inwards to the past, as it had been so often of late, as if something had dislodged the sediment of his memory, memories that he had forced down, pushed away for it was...unacceptable that one such as he had risen so far, one of the 'Dispossessed'. Although it was long since anyone had hissed Fëanorian, as if it were an insult, little realizing the pride it stirred, even now, in his breast. The love.

For love it had been. Still was. For that steel-bright soul, that unquenchable fire that had been Maedhros.

Erestor found his heart weighted suddenly so heavily that he had to stop and lean against a delicate stone balustrade that laced across the gardens and threaded lightly along wide, elegant steps.

Ah. Maitimo.

Erestor rubbed a finger over his eyes. He was tired. Nostalgia skittered over his thoughts, drew back the veil that he kept cast over his memories.

It was Glorfindel's fault he was left so fragile, so vulnerable. Nârmófinion, Glorfindel had said. His invocation of that name, long forgotten, had resurrected something in Erestor. So few of us remember Gondolin, or Nargothrond, he thought. So few of us remember the Noldor in their glory and their pomp...The blazing bright Sons of Fëanor. Elrond had been loved by them but he had only seen them in their poverty and grief, wandering like fugitives. Perhaps only Glorfindel had seen them in their burning glory.

He stared unseeing over the stiff frosted lawns, the hard glitter that dusted leaves and trees. His breath smoked but he felt no cold.

An empty glory, said those who came later, those 'faithful' armies of Aman that had swept in when Manwë had got off his arse and finally, finally acted against Bauglir.

Erestor smiled slightly at himself; his heresy secretly shocked and delighted Elrond, for he was Eärendil's son only by birth and though he had been but a child, no one could mistake Maedhros' calm defiance when he met the cold antagonism of the Valar. They were supposed to have quailed and cried out for mercy at the Doom that condemned them to stay forever on the shores of Middle Earth, foregoing forever the 'Bliss of Aman.' That was how Maedhros used to say it, the Bliss of Aman, with that subtle emphasis and his lovely, urbane smile. And the Vanya lords of Aman who watched him, a silent wall of disapproval, had known he was laughing at them, in spite of the terrible price he had paid, in spite of the poverty into which he was forced, in spite of his dreadful spiral into despair, he was still so much better than them, so much more.

Erestor found that his eyes suddenly prickled and his heart ached. Though he took out those beloved, precious memories, one by one, like they were jewels, and looked at each one, turned it this way and that, and recalled the fierce light, the intense and subtle mind, the reckless courage that was lost...forever.

He had that quality of stillness. Unlike anyone Erestor had met before or since. Maedhros could sit, half turned, his chin not quite resting on his hand and more like he had placed his hand there to aid his thought. He could sit for hours, light grey eyes intent upon you and you felt you were the only other person in the world.

Not grey, Erestor corrected himself and he did not have to grasp at some fleeting memory for it was burned into his thoughts and he would never forget. Mercury or Steel, for he was the bravest, hardiest, strongest. Like steel, tempered by experience.

It had been Erestor who brought the news of Fingon's death to Himring in the cold, bleak winter. He had galloped as fast as he could, his horse almost collapsing beneath him to bring the news that he dared not speak, that he knew would be the only thing that could bring his beloved lord to his knees.

Erestor stopped and lifted his own eyes to the bright stars that scattered across the night sky.

Was he still falling, the fiery hair streaming behind him like a comet's tail? Had he found Eru? Had he fallen into the Void as Eönwe said, damn him? Eru was surely not so cold, so unforgiving?

And what will you do when all others have sailed? Do you think you will find them all awaiting you in Aman? he asked himself. Or will you wither on the shores of Middle Earth?

A breath seemed to force itself between his lips from his heart, as if his body could no longer contain the deep longing, the sorrow and he remembered the sheen of firelight in Maedhros' hair, as if fire itself stroked it, like the hand of a lover. Even eating, feasting, in company, Maedhros always had that inward serenity- as if he communed with an inner voice, his eyes cast down, focused always on whatever task- eating or playing or scanning the horizon. It seemed single-minded but Erestor knew better. It made people think of him as aloof, a strategist, a soldier. Cold, caring nothing for company or warmth or love...

Erestor paused and breathed in, let go a sigh. Love. They were wrong. Erestor never knew anyone with as much love as Maedhros.

...the copper hair gleaming, the utterly beautiful face reaching beneath a child's bed to retrieve shoes thrown in a childish pique. Such kindness, such guilty love. He knew that well...

Erestor had always done whatever Maedhros had asked, even to accompanying his beautiful mad brothers to Nargothrond. Perhaps because they were going, he had asked Erestor to go too, knowing what it cost him. And then later he entrusted the sons of Eärendil to Erestor, knowing that Erestor would never, never deny him anything.

And I never did.

Except once.

Had there been more Elves in the world then? Erestor wondered as he heavily climbed the wide stone steps. It was a long time that he had lived. And he was weary.

He paused on a terrace that curved elegantly along the front of Imladris, a ribbon of stone silvered in the starlight, and looked out across the glittering frost, lost in deep memory. Such a long ago time, so many years had passed...Everyone lost. All gone. Not just dead, but lost. Forever. And he had turned his back on the Valar. How could he do aught else?

Alone. Entirely alone and consumed by such grief that he had been about to follow Maglor, to hunt him, to follow his to the ends of the Earth... Until a hand had touched his sleeve and he had looked up blindly at first, then focused on the small familiar face, those anxious eyes, slanting brows and worried look. The boy had beseeched him to go with him then, back to the court of Eregion, where the hard-bright Gil-Galad reigned. And he had gone, but not for the child's sake. But for his lord's sake, because he had made Erestor swear that he would not forsake him. An Oath as binding as his own.

Erestor pushed open a door and stood unseeing in the empty Hall of Fire. Only embers glowed in the huge grate now, and ashes rose up in the draught that followed him in from outside. A half empty carafe of wine stood on a table, and a glass still with a few dregs in the bottom. Someone had been drinking alone but it only half registered for Erestor's heart was dust, and his soul hollowed out.

How could the Valar be so so hard-hearted? How could they have let all that fire and courage go to waste?

'Damn you to Hells, Manwë,' he said and drank a full goblet of rich wine, careless that it dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand His mouth was stained and thin when he turned to see Legolas Thranduillion standing there surprised, perhaps a little shocked. But not as much as he should be.

Erestor breathed out through his nose. He thought he had never cared that his heresy was overheard but he had tried to be diplomatic, for Elrond's sake. But the silvans had suffered as much as he. And he suddenly felt a jolt of something else pulse through him.

'I expect you have heard your father say as much,' Erestor said.

Legolas smiled. He looked down at the empty glass in Erestor's hand. Then he reached for the carafe and filled it. Lifting an eyebrow, he took the full glass from Erestor's hand and met his eyes. Erestor watched, snapped out of his self-pity, intrigued in spite of himself.

Legolas tossed back the wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'I have heard him roundly curse Manwë and damn all the Valar to Utumno, wherever that is,' he said and his eyes were mischievous.

Ah, thought Erestor, and his own loneliness pierced him like a lance. There was something elusive about the Woodelf, something undefinably sweet. He has a beautiful smile, Erestor thought, truly sweet and a little naive but not innocent. No. Not at all innocent. He tilted his head slightly and was smiled to see Legolas' lovely green eyes widen slightly in understanding.

'I know the silvan well,' Erestor said and took a step towards Legolas, for he needed someone to understand his need, to be with him but who would ask nothing of him. 'And you are far from home.' He took Legolas' gaze in his, cradled it gently for he meant no harm. 'As am I.' He found a deep sigh forcing its way from somewhere in his belly and through him and it shocked him that it was genuine and true. He let his gaze drop and watched as Legolas took his hand in his.


	3. Promises

Chapter 3

The long windows of Erestor's rooms were thrown open so the cold-frost air could flood his study, and from the garden below came the scent of the last of the lavender and late roses that could only bloom in Imladris in this season. Glorfindel had returned. And Rhawion was dead. Erestor stared out at the hard mountains, remembering the slack body Glorfindel had carried into the House and laid it down with such care. It had been years since they had lost anyone to Nazgûl, he thought, and wondered how in all of Arda Thranduil coped with so many and such frequent losses, how had he not given up and sailed. It could have been Thranduil's own son they had returned dead.

He leaned his cheek against his hand and his elbow on the window sill, staring out. Will it never change? he thought. Will there always be someone returning dead? Is Valinor so sterile that it makes this worthwhile?

Why do you not sail?

Because I made a promise, he reminded himself. An oath.

There are so many oaths...many are broken.

He almost laughed. This from one who knows an oath when he hears one!

You cannot keep it, your oath. He to whom you made it never heard it, does not know. It does not comfort him.

It comforts me

No. He could not break this last promise, not this one. He had not broken the promise made to the last sons of Feänor to safeguard and keep the sons of Eärendil, so that they too could abandon those children for a greater love, a greater promise. He stirred, surprised by the disloyal thought. And he still kept that promise, and until Elrond sailed, he was bound to it.

And when I have kept that last promise to my lord, he told himself, there is another which I have made to myself.

A last promise made to his beloved lord, like a last kiss.

He dreamed again that night, of the Nirnaeth Arnodiad. It had been almost the worst day of his life... but there had been one more to come...

0o0o

Erestor himself was still stunned, lost in grief but he knew his duty and and thrown himself from his horse, casting the reins to a boy and running up the steep stone steps of Himring.

Maglor had caught at him as he passed, himself still bloody from battle and wide-eyed with horror...because he too had seen what had happened.

'Do not tell him,' Maglor, proud Maglor who loved beyond reason. 'Närmó, I beg you...do not tell him.'

Blood and a silver blue banner trampled into the mud. Erestor had bent and peeled a bloody scrap of silver-blue out of the wet mud. He could not recognise the face, trampled as it was and nothing but bloody pulp, but he knew the gold braided in the black hair, knew whose hand had twisted the gold strands through black silk hair and had cupped the lovely face for a last tender kiss.

But it was too late to back out now despite Maglor's haggard face, his beseeching eyes.

Within the stone walls that had almost become a cell, low firelight caught in copper-bronze hair, light stroked it like Maedhros' father had stroked fire into the jewels that brought his own destruction and that of all his sons. Grey eyes turned to Erestor that were filled with an other-worldly light, one might say silver but it would not do them justice. But this time, there was emptiness, a deep well of emptiness. Soul-void. And if Maedhros had not been broken by Angband, or by his father's death, by the gradual loss of all his brothers, it was Fingon's death that broke him now.

Not a sound passed his lips.

He simply turned at the sound of Erestor opening the door. Erestor's boots scuffed on the cold flagstones, he halted, standing uselessly by, unable to speak and Maedhros simply looked at him. Maglor had already seen that Fingon was dead, so how much sharper Maitimo's gaze.

The moment seemed frozen and then Maedhros reached out with his missing hand to steady himself, forgot in that moment and his arm missed the mantle above the fire and he stumbled.

'It is not true!' Maglor pushed past Erestor to reach his brother. 'It has not been confirmed. Närmó, tell him you could be mistaken.'

But the scrap of blue and silver Erestor clutched in his hand was stained with Fingon's blood and he held it out, wordless. Maedhros reached for it in a dream and his long, elegant fingers took it so gently and sifted it against his fingertips. Unbearably, he brought it to his lips, his nose and smelled the blood, and closed his eyes.

o0o0o

Erestor half turned in his sleep for his pillow was wet and his breath came out in great sobs. How he wished he had given the news more gently, more kindly! But he knew only the horror of what he had seen, and was but a messenger, no tried and hardened warrior. Born in Berleriand and fostered by his beloved lord who could not help but gather to himself the orphans and bastards, thrown-away children that he never begot himself, as if he would gather together again his brothers, his never-born children. He was so loved, thought Erestor. But from that moment, Maedhros could only see the blue and silver banner trodden into the mud, the battered body beaten into the dust, the lovely face a bloody pulp.

Erestor found himself pressing his hands against his eyes. To have been so glorious, so fair; if Feanor had been the Spirit of Fire, Maedhros had been its heart. For he had loved, and given and given and loved and loved and taken so little for himself. But from then on, from Fingon's death he lost all hope. And there was only Maglor left.

So Erestor had promised himself that when Elrond sailed, he himself would not. Feänorian through and through and through, though not by blood by choice. He was not welcome in Valinor anyway. And he did not care. For a long time in Lindon, there were those who hissed Kinslayer, as he passed andErestor had gained several dashing scars from brawls, for he liked to brawl. It dulled the pain.

But he would do one last thing for his beloved lord, and find that which was lost. He would search for Maglor and he would not cease or rest until he found him, or died, or faded. It seemed only right to try and save the one thing left, that except for Fingon, Maedhros had loved the most.

He had heard rumours of course over the long years, in both war and peace. Now and again a stray traveller brought news and Elrond, as eager as he, sent messengers, emissaries to find out more. Often Erestor himself travelled and searched but when he arrived, even in the hard, dry lands in the East or South there was only an elusive whisper, a rumour and no more. Like a song that could almost be heard.

A note sounded.

... but it was only the wind in the long bells that Arwen had hung in the garden, softly chiming in the wind.

He turned away feeling deep loss and yearning; Maedhros would never, never, never come again walking through the long grass, or striding on long legs up stone steps of Himring to look out over the battlements with the trumpets ringing behind him and his long bronze hair pulled back, his grey eyes alight with Fingon's blue and silver banner snapping in the wind. Never again would the High-King come galloping over the plains to greet the sons of Feänor, the Son of Feänor, the Lord of Hithlum, Maedhros... Maitimo, for that was what Fingon called him. He was the only one who called him thus... And Erestor waited upon them with a tender love for the pure heart and their devoted love, for the the small brief moments that they shared.

Erestor found his eyes full of tears once again and shook his head. What was it that made him dwell so much in the past right now?

All this could end...a whisper. He was tall and fair...fairest. And Fingon the Valiant...

Yes. He was tall and fair and stood so strong against Moringotto. Despite all attempts to break him, he would not break, the memory of it tempered him. Like steel. Until he broke. And it the easiest thing of all then...

The easiest thing of all to find him whom you seek...

In his dream Erestor found himself standing at his balcony, leaning out and the long cool drapes fluttering in the wind that came down from the Mountains, laden with frost and smelling of pine and fir.

Sauron! Where are you?

...I am here...

But all he saw was the Hobbit walking slowly in the garden below. His head was bowed and he walked slowly for he was still recovering from the blade of Mordor.

I am here...

Erestor's gaze lingered on the dark garden. He could see the dim shapes of the trees, their black branches netted with stars. Frodo glanced up and seeing Erestor, lifted his hand in greeting and Erestor slowly returned the gesture, finding it hard to move, like in dreams. He struggled to awake but could not.

I know where he is...the one you seek, the one you swore you would find...

In his dream there was a strange mist that wrapped about him and gracious notes came from somewhere within, a lovely song, complex, loveliest, long slow sonorous notes that invoked some sweet emotion he could not name...and the mist opened a way for him to see the Sea, and upon the silver shore, a figure that he knew was Elven though gaunt and ragged. But the deep-grey eyes that turned upon him could only belong to an Elf who had seen the light of the trees, gazed his fill upon the light of the Simarils, closed them against the slaughter of his brothers...been loved to an incinerating intensity by his father who could not see beyond possession...

Ah, Macalaurë!

And the song Macaluarë had written swirled about Erestor, wrung tears from his eyes so his cheeks were wet.

He reached out but the mist dissipated at his touch and with it, the ghost of Macalaurë. The only one left, brother of his lost beloved lord. Erestor's own oath stung his lips then and he found himself repeating his promise.

I swear, my lord. I swear that I will find him, keep him safe. Or raise a cairn over his bones such as none of your kindred had- to honour your memory through him.

Erestor found his own oath salted his lips and his eyes blurred as the ghost was washed away.

I am here...I will help you...You can help me...

He stilled under the pressure of the words, watchful, careful...listening. It was a seduction of the heart more intense than any Erestor had assayed himself even in his long, long life.

...Across the garden was the wash of the Sea, and a salt fragrance lay like blue silk on the air. That haunting, lovely song brushed against his thoughts once more, that he thought never to hear again such a voice, stroked his loss and yearning for older times when he rode in their wake...and he felt the loss more keenly than ever...

His fingers brushed the cold steel of his knife before he even knew he had done so, and a cold frost-laden breeze drifted down from the mountains and lifted his hair. His amber eyes, had he known it, gleamed in the starlight and he stood frozen, looking down...

Until a hand gently turned his face and he stared, unrecognising for an age. Fingers carefully loosened his grip on the hilt of the dagger that had been borne by hands older and bloodier than his. An arm tenderly laid across his shoulders, steered him away and closed a door he had not even known he had opened.

When he found a cold glass in his hand, he drank and the warmth that flooded his chest and belly brought him slowly back to awareness. Miruvor. He blinked then and wondered why Elladan was looking at him, his lovely, still face so close. Had they kissed?

Stunned, he moved closer. Helpless. For had he not always loved him?

'I have always loved you,' he found himself saying. And Elladan's lips parted in a smile that was so sweet, so painfully sweet, that Erestor's breath caught in his throat and he felt his heart swell.

'I know. You have always been there for us.' Elladan's voice was gentle, like he spoke to a child. His hand was on Erestor's arm, lightly steered him. 'What was it that brought you to the Hobbits' chamber? Did you fear they might take some harm?'

'Yes.' Erestor heard his own voice as if it were not his and he were far away and in a dream. "Some... harm...' He gazed into the anxious, beautiful grey eyes, eyes that had gazed upon him and seen who he was, through the glamour that he cloaked himself with, and loved him for what he was, who he was, all that he was. He found himself leaning in and the scent that was Elladan took him and he closed his eyes to bury himself in sensation...

'Erestor? You are not yourself.'

Slowly he brought himself back to where he was. Standing on the verandah outside the Hobbits' rooms, with Elladan, and Elrohir too looking on with wise, perceptive eyes. Erestor recoiled.

Blinked.

Stepped back.

'When did you return?' he forced his mouth around the words, forced his eyes to focus on their identical, noble, beautiful faces... not identical. He always knew. Let his gaze waver and drift beyond them all to somewhere outside of them both...

'Erestor?'

Concern in that one's voice, he noted. This one is steel and blood, he reminded himself.

'You look faraway and wandering on a distant shore.'

A hand forced his chin round to face the one of steel and blood. There was a serpent coiled at his waist, it hissed. It wanted blood. Did not much care whose. Erestor glared at it... Not mine! he told it and it curled back, hid its malevolent yellow eyes.

No, it agreed. It would wait. Kinslayer. It recognised blood.

And you have spilled much, he told it. Drunk your fill yet?

He was dimly aware that somewhere, hands were leading him, something was at his lips, warmth spread through his throat and chest and belly. A fragrance. And then the voice... calling him... calling him back... it was crimson Power that loved him, the roiling, turmoil of energy that swept and surged around him so it could be the Sea or a storm...and that deep voice called him, pulled at his blood like the moon at the tide... but it had not the Power over him to coerce him, but he cared for it, loved it... and so he turned towards it for it knew him and he was always there... always came when they called... whenever...

'Erestor.'

That is not my name, he thought.

But this second voice was a part of the first. And only together were they whole; separate they were but parts... The second voice was deep as the Sea, where the Silmaril glowed, and its blue peace and calm spoke to him as no other. This second voice drifted and curled and wrapped itself around him gently and with such love... This voice was love... This blue presence that walked beside him and lay its hand gently upon his arm, and drew him back, was part of him like it was part of the crimson voice...

A sting on his cheek and he raised his hand instantly and caught a wrist in his own iron grip. He blinked.

Elrohir stood chest to chest with him, his hand raised and caught in Erestor's hand. A guilty look fled across his face and was gone, caught.

'Did you just strike me?' Erestor asked astounded, coldly horrified.

'Yes. You were lost.'

'I was not lost, I was thinking.'

'Of what?' Elrohir challenged.

Of Maedhros. of Maglor, he wanted to shout in Elrohir's face, blast him with his fury, with his disappointment, with his own terrible yearning loss. Instead he felt again the wrap of Elladan's concern and worry, and he turned instead towards the lovely face and lifted his hand to cup Elladan's smooth cheek. But he remembered himself half way and changed the movement to cup his own smarting cheek instead.

'Young pup,' he snarled. 'You are lucky I don't horsewhip you!'

'You were lost,' Elrohir insisted but he stepped away, still watching. Guilt, remorse fled through his eyes and were replaced by the steelier accusation more familiar in Elrohir.

'How could I be lost in Imladris!' Erestor said, heavy with sarcasm but he felt a dream still clinging to him, like cobwebs. 'Ridiculous children. Now get on and see your father. He is worried,' he said, to deflect and distract. Which it did.

'He can wait,' Elrohir, steel and blood, a serpent at his hip. Aícanaro. Erestor's lip curled. He had hated that thing from the moment Elrohir brought it back.

'Go and see him. He worries and you should not be so quick to add to them,' Erestor snapped but he was lost himself somewhere half between waking and dreaming, and the dream still clung to him like cobwebs, like vines that curled around his arms and thighs and drew him back into the dreams, the lure of finding Maglor, as he had sworn.

The brothers hesitated, looking at each other in that intent way they had, that had they known it, their father and his brother shared- so much more communicated than was spoken between them. Then as one, they turned.

'We will see you back to your own rooms, and then we will see Elrond,' said Elrohir, for he always called his father by his name..

Erestor snorted. 'You will do no such thing. You will go to Elrond now and I will take you there.'

It was only when he saw the flicker on Elrohir's eyes that he realised he had been outsmarted and again he snorted but this time in mild appreciation. 'You thought to do this all along, to take me away from here. Foolish children, do you think if I wanted to do something, you could stop me?' He flicked his fingers at them. 'Even with your serpent-sword, you could not stop me, child. And you think me ensnared by so insignificant a thing as Ash Nazg? I who fought Morgoth, who stood with Maedhros and Maglor against the Balrogs and Dragons? This is your war, and it is pitiful.'

He turned with contempt and stalked along the lawns below his own rooms, strode up the shallow stone steps and flung open the door to his study. He stood in his chamber. Only then did he look down at the dagger in his hand, and trembling, fix it back where he had taken it from the sheath on the armour that still gleamed like it had the day he was given it. It was all he had left from those glorious days, and he had sold it twice and then stolen it back both times. Shameless as a Dwarf.

But he sat on the edge of his narrow bed and held his head in his hands. what had he done? Or almost done? In despising Ash Nazg, he had underestimated it, for it had known his secrets and tempted his heart. So he knew there were none who were safe, and neither he, nor Glorfindel should accompany the Ringbearer, and certainly not Elrohir. And his heart quailed at the thought that his sweet Elladan should go into Mordor.

0o0o


End file.
